(A passenger comes through my security checkpoint at the airport. She is the most scatterbrained individual I have ever seen, and has had to go through the metal detector three times: once for her belt, another time for her hairclips, and finally, for her dog tags.)

Passenger: “Geez, I’m sorry, you know? I don’t mean to be so brain dead.”

Me: “It’s fine, ma’am.”

(I hand the passenger her dogtags and sees she’s in the Navy.)

Me: “Oh, my brother is in the Navy. What do you do?”

Passenger:*laughs sheepishly* “You’ll love this. I work on a nuclear reactor.”

(Note: I’m a female and I’m waiting for my girlfriend to get off work, and the person who was supposed to relieve her is running late, so I’m hanging around. My girlfriend is hair under five feet tall, and maybe 90 pounds. She’s really little and people try and intimidate her a lot because of this.)

(Thankfully my girlfriend steps out of reach of the customer’s swing. However, the petite woman behind him suddenly surges forward, and in one swift movement twists his arm behind his back and slams his face down on the counter.)

Petite Woman:*to my girlfriend* “Honey, you may want to call 911.”

My Girlfriend:*stunned* “O-Okay…”

Me:*to the male customer* “Jesus Christ, what the h*** is the matter with you, you freaking pyscho?!”

(The male customer stops struggling when he realizes that she isn’t going to let go anytime soon. The police show up in less than five minutes. They get everyone’s statements and view the security video. The manager finally meanders out; he’s a man who is useless in every sense of the word. He also doesn’t like my girlfriend because she’s dating me, a girl.)